Improbabilities
by BoredInHighSchool
Summary: Sherlock has recently run into some feelings he doesn't quite understand. He also doesn't understand quite what he should do with them. Pre-Slash, Sherlock/John. Heavy Slash in later chapters. Rated M for future chapters.    CHAPTER THREE NOW COMPLETE.  Opinions for Ch. 4 needed. See A/N at end of Ch. 3.
1. Recognition

Improbabilities

**Chapter 1: Recognition **

It was early morning by the time Sherlock realized just how bored he truly was. He hadn't slept the entire night, which wasn't out of character exactly if he had been working on a case but, he hadn't been for about a week now. Playing his violin and conducting inconclusive experiments involving heads, intestines, and varying chemicals were all that seemed to keep Sherlock out of his own head. It was hardly five o'clock when he simply gave up, declaring there was simply nothing left for him to do. Sherlock decided to unlock John's "private" army pistol once again, aiming for the familiar smile on the wall, firing.

Much time hadn't passed before John's familiar face crept into the gun range, seemingly disguised as his own living room.

"Sherlock..." John began, noticing the all-too-familiar weapon in his best friend's hand.

"I. Am. BORED!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"That doesn't mean you have the right t-"John's voice trailed off when he noticed Sherlock hadn't been listening to a single word. Although for that, John was partially grateful. He had once again awoken with an erection, having no memory of the dreams he'd experienced the night before. Hiding behind today's jumper and jeans, was John's cock practically begging for attention. When John seemed he couldn't put it off any longer, he walked calmly to the bathroom, _(well, as calmly as he could)_ locking the door behind him. He was sure his absence would go unnoticed.

He was wrong.

Sherlock glanced at his best friend, as he seemingly wobbled to the bathroom. He would have continued on with his boredom, had he not heard the small _*click* _of the lock as his flatmate disappeared. Sherlock deduced quickly that John would only lock the door if he was planning on doing something particularly embarrassing he didn't want Sherlock to know about. Knowing this, Sherlock subtly raised from the leather sofa, creeping steadily toward the bathroom.

"_Nothing interesting,"_ Sherlock thought to himself, feeling the dreaded boredom making room once again in his mind. Just has Sherlock turned to walk away, he heard a quite odd hum rising above the noise of the shower. However odd, it gave him a feeling at the pit of his stomach that he didn't quite understand. Before long, he heard shower curtains ruffling, along with various toiletries falling to the tile floor. The feeling in his stomach intensified, though it seemed to be making its way down Sherlock's body. Suddenly familiar with the feeling, Sherlock froze. It had been a while since Sherlock had allowed himself to feel this way. Hell- it had been a while since he'd felt this way under any conditions. Soon, Sherlock could hear stifled moans, grunts, and cries of pleasure and he couldn't help but allow himself to let a small moan escape from his clenching teeth. He stood there for a while, pants growing tighter, until he heard the stream of the shower stop suddenly. Snapping back to reality, Sherlock ran quickly, yet somehow gracefully, to his bedroom, locking the door and plopping face up on his bed.

He couldn't believe what he'd just done. He may be a sociopath but, voyeurism was among the few things he'd never even imagined himself participating in, much less _enjoying. _Sherlock had for once in at least a decade, allowed his body to act, rejecting the logic of his mind. It was at that moment that he swore to never let it happen again.

Exactly three hours eleven minutes and seven seconds later Sherlock noted, he received a phone call from Detective Inspector Lestrade, saving him from the war of his own thoughts. Sherlock walked to the sitting room, finding John sipping tea and reading the newspaper. Sherlock noticed John was wearing a jumper that he was especially fond of, an observation he was sure he would have ignored had it not been for what happened earlier in the day.

"We're leaving, John. Get your coat." Sherlock said, as bluntly he could. _(He couldn't have John being suspicious.) _John fumbled around, gulping the remainder of his tea as he threw on his coat, chasing his flatmate out of the door.

"I'm guessing that was Lestrade then." John observed, ducking into the cab.

Sherlock gave John one of his famous "_isn't that obvious, you twit" _glares. A look that John knew all to well. John turned away embarrassed as silence fell upon the cab.

When the two men arrived at New Scotland Yard, Sherlock was all business, nearly obnoxious in his level of excitement, which was usual. Detective Donovan reluctantly lead them to a conference room where Lestrade had been rounding up evidence.

"It appears to be a double homicide," Lestrade began. "But learning from my many years working with Sherlock, I expect that there's something fishy going on here."

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock who seemed to be anything but focused, looking through him rather than at him. Assuming Sherlock was just in deep though, he went on.

Sherlock however had not been listening at all. All he could seem to think about was John. His flatmate. His colleague. His best friend. The man standing bloody two feet away from him. His inability to focus frustrated him, considering how intent on a new case he was not five minutes ago. Sherlock seemed to be observing all the wrong things. He thought about how nice John looked in his jumper, how he distinctly smelled of a scent Sherlock knew simply as _John. _Sherlock quickly regained his focus when he noticed Detective Lestrade and Donovan walking towards the door. It seems an hour had already passed. Sherlock thought quickly of the recent conversation he hadn't been paying attention to and stated without hesitation, "To the crime scene," a fake and nervous smile hinted on his face.

On the way to the scene, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade had stopped at Angelo's for a quick bite. _(Or in Sherlock's case, a glass of water.)_ Had it been any case prior to this once, Sherlock would have been outraged at the thought of making a stop anywhere for anything, especially something as trivial as eating. However, during this case, Sherlock was glad for the chance to simply observe John in his most relaxed state. He watched the man closely as he chewed, smiled, and laughed; licking his lips occasionally to clean any jelly filling that could have clung to his skin. "_His smooth, surprisingly soft looking skin." _Sherlock thought to himself, quickly catching himself staring like one of the love-struck teenagers from ridiculous sitcoms John forced him to watch. After what seemed like days had passed, the two men opposite of Sherlock stood, gathering their things. Sherlock walked behind them, wordlessly.

When the men finally arrived at the crime scene, everyone else had already left. The scene was across town and, John and Lestrade seemed to enjoy taking the long route. It was already getting dark outside, as Lestrade used a small flashlight to maneuver around in the fire-destroyed factory building. When Sherlock was introduced to the strategically placed "John Doe's," he immediately understood what had happened. None the less, he allowed the DI to continue his explanation, giving him the time to, once again, steal glances at Dr. John Watson. _"It doesn't make sense," _Sherlock admitted to himself. _"I'm a sociopath. We're __incapable__ of… feeling…" _Sherlock thought back to the arousal he'd felt as he listened through closed doors while John pleased himself. John must have seen something in Sherlock, as when he locked eyes with his flatmate, he immediately shifted uncomfortably. The intensity of such a glare giving him a strange but, not unpleasant feeling. Sherlock noticed his shifting automatically, the already limited amount of rose in his cheeks leaving within a few milliseconds.

"If I may," Sherlock asked rhetorically, holding his hand up, signaling to Lestrade that it was time for him to stop talking. Sherlock began explaining that the two men lying dead before him were not victims of a double-homicide but, a double-suicide. "An idiotic act of love," Sherlock declared, resisting the urge to look to John. He could feel the disparity on his face, thinking of how he'd feel if John had ever thought of taking his own life, much less for _Sarah_ or any of his love interests. The insisting silence in the factory hinted that John and Lestrade were waiting for a definition on how he could know such a thing, based on the bodies before him. "They're wearing rings. Wedding rings as it seems. Not expensive. Sentimental or something..." Sherlock trailed off. He's never understood emotions, whether his or anyone else's. "The rice stuck in the soles of their shoes suggests that we're standing in the final stage of their ceremony. Though the fire makes it seem like a murderer covering his tracks, I'm nearly positive the fire was a mere coincidence, aided by the fact that the building is nearly two hundred years old and, the place reeks of a gas leak, though not any gas recommended for arson." Sherlock walked toward the door the men had come in, ready to leave it all behind him like most simplistic cases.

"Stunning," was all the John could manage to push from his lips, nodding at Lestrade after he began jogging after his other-worldly companion. Hearing this, behind his newly raised collar, the corners of Sherlock's lips tightened, rising only slightly.

The ride back to Baker Street was nearly as quiet as the one to Scotland Yard; it was exceptionally more so. The two men walked into their home, John quickly walking to the kitchen, filling the kettle. The men got comfortable, as was usual in the cozy space they knew so well. Only this time, Sherlock watched John more closely, as his t-shirt/short combination provided plenty of wiggle room for the surplus amount of Sherlock's imagination. The two sat in silence, watching one of John's favorite shows. Usually, Sherlock would be complaining, fairly loudly, about the simplicity of it's' plot but instead, Sherlock was drawn to John's determined facial expression. What Sherlock had felt earlier was physical attraction and curiosity but now, he seemed to be genuinely interested in John. His mind, how he thought, how he felt… Sherlock was sure he was going mad.

Not an hour later, John had started a light snore. Sherlock was incredibly tempted to sneak to John's chair to place an innocent, chaste kiss on his lips. _"Bad. Illogical. Unreasonable. Bad," _he chanted to himself in the dimly lit room. Instead, Sherlock covered his… friend… with a blanket he felt heavy enough to keep him warm, turned off the telly, and walked in a way that could only be described as trekking, to his room. He plopped down on his bed, similar to the way he had early morning. _"What is happening to me?" _was the thought that plagued his mind for the remainder of the night.


	2. And so, the Truth Runs Free

Improbabilities

**Chapter 2: And so, the Truth Runs Free**

It was 8am Monday morning when John woke up to the familiar sound of his best friend's violin. _"Oh, Sherlock," _John thought to himself, smiling thoughtlessly into the silence of his room. John lay there momentarily until he realized exactly what time it was and how late to work he was already. "Shit!" he shouted to the darkness. He stripped out of his t-shirt and shorts quickly, grabbing the first jumper he'd seen laying around. As he stepped the first leg into his shorts, he realized his rather… urgent dilemma. "Fuck. This can't be happening," John sighed heavily, staring at his ever-growing member. His morning _problem_ had once again reared its ugly head. (No pun intended.) John shook his head, pulling his shorts up, followed by his trousers, preparing himself for another day. When he opened the door, he was greeted by an exhausted-looking Sherlock, holding in his hand, _two_ cups of tea. _"Since when does _Sherlock_ make tea? Much less for __me__," _John thought to himself.

"Good morn-" the bass voice began.

"Save it, Sherlock. Why didn't you wake me? You know I work today," John nearly yelled, slowly losing control of his temper as he made his way to the front door. Before Sherlock nearly had the time to reply, the door had already slammed shut.

"But… I made us tea…" Sherlock's voice trailed off as he walked down the stairs, so much so his words were barely audible to his own ears.

"_I haven't done anything wrong," _Sherlock told himself, silently. _"If that's true, then why do I feel like such an arse?" _Sherlock paused. And for one short moment in his life, his brain stopped. _"Feel…" _his mind dwelled on the word. _"I've never _felt_ anything before I met John. I simply don't understand!" _Sherlock slammed the tea tray on the coffee table and grabbed his violin again, plucking a series of melodic notes, angrily at first, slowly shifting into something quite calm. _"I don't know what I'd do without John. I wish for him to stay in my life, for quite a long time…" _Sherlock thought. "But, what does that _MEAN?" _Suddenly, the tall, pale, slinky man was yelling to the empty flat. Sherlock paced momentarily before deciding on a shower. While in the tile enclosing, Sherlock did more thinking than he did washing but, the scalding water helped him collect his thoughts. After leaving the bathroom, the ever-so-naked Sherlock found himself drawn to John's room. Eyeing the recently discarded clothing, he couldn't help himself. The tall man grabbed the still warm shorts and t-shirt and dressed himself in them. Before his mind was able to catch up with his actions, Sherlock was in his flatmate's bed, the smell filling his lungs. In his mind, he went through the events of the morning, looking for details he'd possibly missed before. _"John. He opened his door. A hint of surprise in his eye, masking… embarrassment? What reason would John have for being emba-" _Sherlock's thoughts reared as a smile grew outrageously wide on his face when he realized the true reason for John's quick departure. _"Looks like someone didn't have the time for their early morning wank today," _Sherlock let a small giggle escape his lips. _"Seems another symptom of John is pre-pubescent giggling as well." _He thought to himself. And after more than 48 sleepless hours, Sherlock drifted into his dreams.

John nearly rushed home after work today, feeling bad after the way he left Sherlock earlier that morning. _"After all, it hadn't been Sherlock's fault for my… issues," _John thought. _"Well… at least not directly," _John corrected as he thought back to the interesting dreams he'd had that night. Ones he couldn't quite explain. Not yet anyway.

John opened the familiar door to his home, hearing something he'd never thought possible for the time of day; utter and complete silence. "Sherlock?" John called into the silence, his voice echoing off of the walls. No answer. John just assumed Sherlock had gone out, although he wasn't particularly happy about the idea. _"You're not his keeper, John," _he mentally scolded himself. John walked up the stairs to his bedroom, before abruptly coming to a halt, as his door was slightly ajar, rather than closed like he'd left it before. Knowing Moriarty was still out there somewhere, John cautiously approached his room. Expecting the worse, John was immediately relieved when he stood before his bed. However, what he did see was something he'd never thought he would in a thousand years. There, in _his_ room, in _his_ bed, wearing _his _underwear was Sherlock. His best friend. His colleague. Snoring… looking so majestic… so… "Beautiful," John whispered to himself. Unable to process the information, John sat in the chair beside his bed, looking over the pale, long, masterpiece lying just out of his reach. _"He's in my room… in my bed… wearing my bloody UNDERWEAR… I should be upset… So, why am I so… happy?" _John sat there, thoughts whirling, for what seemed like forever.

Until suddenly, Sherlock murmured his name.

"Oh… John…" Sherlock nearly moaned into the foreign pillow. The sound of his own voice woke him completely. Eyes opening wide, Sherlock realized not only was the pillow beneath his head unknown but, so was the bed supporting him and the room he was infiltrating. "I must have fallen asleep," Sherlock concluded foggily, rising his body from the mattress. "No matter. Plenty of time before John retur-" Sherlock stopped as soon as he saw the time on the clock across from him. It was well past the time the doctor usually returned. Suddenly, the detective's senses rushed back to him, as if they had been momentarily disabled. He could suddenly _feel _the heat in the room, _hear_ the heavy breathing adjacent him, _and smell _the fresh scent of John in the shrinking room. Slowly, he turned his head to stare directly into the eyes of John Watson.

"Hello, Doctor," Sherlock said, nervously. John just continued to stare for what seemed like an eternity. "Well, any time you-" Sherlock began. He could never seem to finish anything without interruptions recently.

"Would you mind explaining to me exactly what you're doing in my room?" John retorted quizzically. Sherlock climbed awkwardly out of the bed, John's t-shirt revealing some of his surprisingly toned abdomen due to the height difference. _"He looks so ridiculous in that shirt.. _my _shirt," _John thought, trying his best not to giggle, ruining the serious environment he'd created. His eyes however quickly found the exposed skin and the bulge in the shorts. Now, he'd need to worry about licking and/or biting his lips. He stood quickly when he noticed Sherlock was about to talk. "Before you give me anymore excuses," he began, "let me remind you that not only were you sleeping in my bed but, you were wearing my _underwear_, Sherlock. I'd never thought I'd need to tell you this but _this_ is even more than a bit not good," Before John could stop himself, he was slowly closing the gap between the two men, confused.

"I… uh… well… I was conducting a rather… inconclusive experiment, John," Sherlock explained, his breathing becoming shallow and loud.

"You're lying," John pointed out, rather simply.

Sherlock usually loved when John could tell exactly what was going on in his mind. He usually felt pride in the advancement of John's skills in deduction under his teachings. This was not one of those times. He sighed, giving up on the lies early. "I doubt you'd want to hear the _actual_ reasoning behind my… actions, John." Before Sherlock had the chance to move, John's face was not even a foot away from his. When John saw the distressed look on Sherlock's face, his own expression immediately changed from one of confusion to one of worry.

"Tell me what's bothering you, Sherlock. Anything on your mind, you can tell me. You usually do without caring about feelings, anyway," John snorted, thinking back to the time he'd had nightmares three days straight after Sherlock described in detail one of his older murder cases. "Come on, Sherlock, we're best friends,"

"Yes John but _that _is the _problem,_" Sherlock's words escaped his lips before his usual censor had the time to stop them. Seeing the look of confusion on John's face, Sherlock knew there was no going back. Taking a deep breath, he continued, "I _think…_ I… love you?" The words left his mouth more like a question than a declaration of love.

John's eyes widened.


	3. It's All Fine

Improbabilities

**Chapter 3: It's All Fine**

The room fell silent, the only sounds being the audible clicking of John's swallowing and Sherlock's words echoing around them awkwardly. Sherlock knew that after tonight, everything would change. For better, or for worse. Even if John didn't completely hate him afterwards as he suspected, things would never be the same. Realizing the consequences behind his rash actions, Sherlock surged forward swiftly, so much so that John barely had a chance to widen his eyes even further before a warm mouth and spidery arms were swallowing him whole.

The kiss was simple. Partly due to the fact that Sherlock was hideously inexperienced and dared not to complicate things, but mostly because John had apparently turned into stone. _'But he hasn't backed away,' _the small annoying voice niggled in the back of Sherlock's mind. Stepping away with his eyes closed, Sherlock could feel heat rising to his face. "I'm sorry, John," were the only words his mind supplied before he turned around and opened his eyes. Unable to bare the look of shame undoubtedly plastered onto John's face, Sherlock bashfully scurried through the threshold, pulling the door shut behind him. He stood on the opposite side of the wooden door, listening carefully for breathing, movement, _anything. _When all he heard was silence, Sherlock nearly ran downstairs to his own messy bedroom, silent wetness that felt a lot like tears falling from the corners of his eyes.

John could only stand there, staring for what seemed like an eternity at the spot in _his_ bed where his colleague, flatmate, and best _friend_, and secret crush had moments ago been soundly sleeping. Moments after feeling the gust of wind from his closing door, he released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. Sherlock, his asexual self-proclaimed sociopathic roommate had just confessed to not only having feelings but, having feelings only for _him; _a washed-up and tattered army veteran. Unable to think much more on the subject without igniting some sort of heart murmur, John stripped down to his shorts and undershirt and carefully reclined into the side of his bed adjacent to his recently disturbed sheets. It has been a long day and he was exhausted, never mind the fact that it was hardly past 6 o'clock. When he noticed he wouldn't be doing any sleeping without aid from a few sleeping pills, John angrily reached for the bottle in his bed-side table. The same pills he had been so avidly ignoring ever since the prescription was set. Soon the induced coma would engulf him and there wouldn't be nightmares, only darkness which is some ways, was worse.

In his room, Sherlock paced, as much as he could considering the always cluttered state of the place. "Idiot. I'm an idiot. The great Sherlock Holmes is officially an idiot. A _CRYING _idiot," Sherlock muttered exasperatedly, wiping his face with clenched fists. "I may as well me _normal_," He spit the last word out like it personally offended him, which it did in a way. Ever since he was a young boy, Sherlock knew he wasn't normal. Not like the other children his age. His mother chided him for his insistence on irregularities, though that was a step up from his dads' negligence. However, rather than allow this to tear him down, Sherlock spent his life purposefully denying the presence of any feelings or sentiment. Now, here he was, years later, secreting salt water from his lacrimal system over some _normal _doctor. Until now, he'd deemed any person without his intellect unworthy of even his basic attentions. Now, this _John _person was bringing him to tears. This feeling nonsense was quickly drowning all energy from his usually overactive mind. Sherlock dramatically, as was his specialty, threw himself atop his sheets and gave into the pull of the darkness for the second time in 24 hours. His dreams filled with the sight, sounds, and scent of one certain army doctor.

John awoke the next morning feeling refreshed though not sure what to do. Sherlock was obviously awake downstairs, probably working on one of his many experiments. John went about his regular morning routine; toilet, shower, shave, dress, before he decided he had to go face the music eventually. "Just another day at 221B Baker Street," John mumbled to himself. "Other than the fact that your offensively attractive _heartless_ flatmate confessed their love for you just 10 hours ago and you didn't tell him," he added sarcastically. Rolling his eyes, he walked down the stairs and into the living from where said attractive flatmate lay still as a statue on his favorite leather couch. "Good morning," John croaked. Clearing his unexplainably dry throat, he tried again. "Good morning, Sherlock," he gave a half-smile when he noticed one clear grey eye watching him. Being under the scrutiny of just one Holmes eye was enough attention to make John's palm's sweat and his heart beat rise. Something that's happened before, John noticed. Thinking to himself, John stalked toward the kitchen and began the kettle. Instinctively, John grabbed two mugs and waited for the kettle to whistle. When it did, John added copious amount of sugar to his cup and a modest tablespoon to Sherlock's. When he walked, tray in hand, back to the living room, Sherlock was still laying there, stiff as ever. "I made tea, Sherlock. I can make toast if-"

"You hate me, don't you?" Sherlock interrupted. "I would hate me. You took nearly 15 minutes longer from the time you woke up until the time you reached the bottom of the stairs. Assuming that ignoring me for as long as possible was the cause without being obvious. But, you were obvious. To me, at least. I did apologize. For last night. I didn't mean it, you know. When I said I-" he hesitated. "Well, you remember. I wasn't in my right mind then. Or when I, uh, kissed you. So, it's all fine. Really. It's all… fine." Sherlock had begun his prepared speech just like he intended, sure, confident, and forceful. But by the time it came to the irritatingly _blatant _lie he had decided to add at the end, his voice was small and unsure, two adjectives that should never be used to describe anything about him.

"Um, well, Sherlock-" John began.

"No, John. Don't. It's really all good," Sherlock stood and took his tea from the tray now sitting on the coffee table. He took a long deliberate drink from the scalding cup, enjoying the burn as it cleared his mind. "You're straight. And, I'm… Well, I'm Sherlock Holmes. Always proving that repetitive love song from that _bug_ band wrong. I definitely don't need love," he choked on that last word, avoiding the gaze he was receiving from the irritatingly true blue eyes of one John Watson. There was silence until Sherlock felt a warm sensation on the wrist of the hand not holding tea. He set it down as his hand had begun to shake rapidly from the contact. When he looked back, John was smiling. No, scratch that, the bastard was _grinning_ from ear to ear. "Wh-" was all the angry snarl that was able to leave Sherlock's mouth before the achingly unfamiliarity of John's lips could make itself known for the second time in 24 hours. John and Sherlock's second kiss was nothing like the first, to both of their delight. John took Sherlock's shock to his advantage as he sneaked his tongue into Sherlock's mouth to caress the taller mans'. Both the shudder and the moan that wrangled itself from Sherlock acted as magnets to John's hands as one found it's way to Sherlock's cheek and the other to the nape of his neck, tightening in the unruly curls and deepening the kiss. Sherlock was lost in the pleasure of the kiss, drowning in John's scent, surrendering to John's ministrations. All he could muster the energy to do was grip the front of John's jumper and hold on for dear life. All too soon however, John was pushing him away. After reluctantly pulling apart, they stared at each other for ages with blown pupils, kiss swollen lips, and scarlet lips before John smiled _that smile_ at him.

"The Beatles," he stated simply. John pulled the brunette into his arms for one of the best hugs either of them had ever experienced. Once again, John had to force himself to pull away from… whatever this was becoming. He couldn't help but smile at the disappointment on his… Sherlock's face. "Work," he whispered. It seemed his mind wasn't going to supply him with any full sentences. When he turned to walk away, the weak hand on his arm felt like an anchor as it stopped him in his tracks, when he turned, Sherlock was blushing. _Blushing._ "Mm?"

"You'll… come back… right, John?" Sherlock inquired softly.

John couldn't help but give Sherlock a chaste kiss on his uncharacteristically pink cheek. "Always," he assured. He turned around and walked through the doors of 221B Baker Street, leaving his smirking flatmate standing in the middle of their living room. When he found himself back on familiar London streets, he added "I couldn't stay away if I tried," heaving a breathy laugh.

**Important A/N:**

I would like to end this fic with one more chapter. The content of that however, is up to you.  
>Would you rather have a chapter directly following where John returns from work and they work things out?<br>Or an epilogue where they've been exclusive for a while and it's time for Sherlock's first time. (penetrative)

Either way, there will be lemons.  
>Just way more in the latter.<p>

Leave reviews, please!


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